


Prologue

by boringusername01



Series: I've Got the Strangest Feeling This Isn't Our First Time Around [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel and Dean are both 18, High School AU, M/M, met as kids, not really sure how to tag beyond all that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 01:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18863341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boringusername01/pseuds/boringusername01
Summary: Dean Winchester was always coming into my life and leaving it soon thereafter. You would think I would have gotten used to it by now. But, when Dean Winchester storms into my life, with his loud car, his charm-your-pants-off smile, his eyes that reminded me of a long gone carpet, I forgot how much it hurt finding out the next Monday that he wasn’t there anymore, because seeing him in front of me, with a cigarette hanging from his lips, my whole body feels like it’s finally alive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this is the first fic I've written, so compliments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!
> 
> And, I was undoubtedly inspired by this posted by Tumblr user @cath-avery: https://cath-avery.tumblr.com/post/169214542068/through-all-of-my-lives-id-never-thought-id
> 
> Enjoy these dorks!

_‘You’re gonna lose people in your life. And realize that no matter how much time you spent with them or how much you appreciate them and told them so, it will never seem like it was enough’ – unknown_

 

**5 May 1962, Saturday**

 

One of my earliest memories is meeting Dean Winchester.

Mom and Dad were taking me on a walk around the neighbourhood, pointing out different things.

_What are those purple plants, Castiel?_ my mother would ask.

_Lavender!_

_What colour is that car?_

_Black!_

_How high is the sky?_ My dad would butt in on the myriad of questions, disrupt the rhythm of the answers.

_I… I don’t know._

_Get on my shoulders, and let’s find out._ My dad would put me on his shoulders and I would reach towards the blue-blue sky, stretching my body, never touching it.

_Daddy?_

_Yes, son?_

_The sky is too high._ Dad’s hearty rumbled through me.

He was about to reply but a sudden voice called out. I looked around for the voice and saw a boy sitting on the porch of the house with the lovely lavenders. He had honey brown hair, but when he ran into the sun, blonde streaks appeared.

“Hi! M’name’s Dean.” The boy smiled up at us, at me, a large gap where his two front teeth should be.   _My_ big tooth had just started wiggling. Mom said it was going to fall out any day now. Dean stuck out a hand.

“Hello, young man,” Dad said, his large hand engulfing Dean’s. “Shouldn’t you be inside with your parents?”

“I wanted to find a friend to play cars with me. It’s boring inside. Can he play?”

Dad looked towards mom, who laughed awkwardly, “You don’t even know his name.”

“What’s your name?” Dean raised his chin towards me, his eyes winking at the sun behind me.

“Castiel,” I half-whispered.

“Casteel?” His contorted in confusion.

“Cast _iel,_ ” I said a little louder.

“Nice to meet you, Cast _iel_. Do you play cars?”

“No, not really.”

“Do you _want_ to play cars?”

I did not want to play cards, but I had seen worried expressions on my parent’s faces when Ms Panton said I wasn’t talking to the other kids in class. Maybe this would make them happy with me. Plus, even then Dean’s questions were never questions, more suggestions that you just had to follow.

“Sure.”

Dean’s smile was radiant. I returned it with my own shy one.

“Do you want to talk to my mom? She can look after us. She’s home all day anyway.”

Mom and Dad looked at each other with unreadable expressions. They looked at each other for another second before Dad said, “Lead the way.”

Dad took me off his shoulders and placed me on the ground. I readjusted my pants, and Mom tucked my shirt back in. We made our way up Dean’s wooden stairs. Dean pushed the door open and shouted into the house, “Mommy! There are guests.”

The lady who responded sounded like she could sing well, “Coming!”

A few seconds later, a beautiful, blonde lady filled the doorway. Her blonde was wrapped in a bun. She was wearing jeans – I didn’t know then that ladies wore jeans – with a white top that had mud on it. She smiled sweetly at Mom and Dad and stuck out her hand.

“Good morning, I’m Mary Winchester. What’s this little rascal done now?” She ruffles Dean’s hair, who has his arms around her one of her legs.

“Chuck Novak. And this is my wife, Amelia. We were walking past and… your son was talking about playing cars?”

Ms Mary looked down at Dean, who just smiled up at her, his freckles mixing and mashing with each other. She shook her head, but there was a fond smile on her face like she expected this of him, but still couldn’t believe he did it, “Did he now?”

“Please, mommy,” Dean pleaded, “Sammy’s asleep and you said he can’t play cars with me yet. Can me and Cast- Casteel- Cas play while you do stuff in the garden?”

Mary looked up from Dean, embarrassed. She didn’t seem to know how to ask Mom and Dad. The silence lasts a second before something I’ve never done before happened: I spoke up.

“Can I please go play cars, Daddy?” My voice was small after Dean’s fast parade of words.

“If it’s okay with Mrs Winchester, sure.”

Mary smiled, “Oh, it’s Mary,” she looks down to me, and winks, “Of course it is,” then back to my parents, “Can I invite you in for a cup of coffee?”

“If it’s no trouble?”

“Of course not. Come in.” Ms Mary stepped out of the doorway with Dean close to her side. The three of us followed her in.

The door opened into the living room. The first difference I realised in our lives was how _alive_ Dean’s home felt, and that was because of the plants all over the house. There were flowers draped the window sill, which let in so much light into the living room; there was a tall, willowy green plant next to a black, bulky television. On the table behind the couch, there was a bouquet of flowers. I was surprised I couldn’t name any of them. Mom had shown me so many flowers, I thought I knew them all. The carpet on the ground was a deep forest green and brown, that I recall being so comfortable we insisted on sleeping on it on some of our sleepovers. That living room felt like I was outside, but with the security of being protected

“Dean, get Castiel to help you move your toys to the backyard while I make coffee.”

Dean let go of his mom’s leg and walked over to me. His green eyes were bright and I remembered thinking, _he looks so happy to see me_.

He grabbed my wrist and started dragging me towards and up the stairs, “Come on, Cas.”

 

~

 

**2 November 1962, Friday**

One of my earliest traumas also involved Dean Winchester.

I remember that I was crying into my mom’s shoulder while the fire blazed, her grip on me tight – as if she was afraid I would run into the fire. I’m going to be honest, I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t been holding me. But, I couldn’t even look up from her neck, because the red flame reflected off everything around us, like we were all burning. I was too young to understand what hell was, but whenever I think about it now, I picture that night: my best friend’s house on fire, some people shouting and some just stunned, staring, waiting for the family of four to walk out, even if they were broken and bruised, just _walk out_.  The firemen had just arrived and I heard water coming out when my mom whispered her name for me, “Cassie.”

Sobs continued to rip through my body.

“Cassie. Dean and Sammy got out.”

A shock ran through my mom and I wriggled in my mother’s arms.

“Wh- wh- where are they, mommy? Where? Where?”

My mother’s grip on me tightened but her words stayed soft, “They’re with the doctors by the truck over there. I’ll take you there.”

My mother’s footsteps were like a clock ticking too slowly. I wanted to be there already. I kicked against her, but her arms held me fast, comfortable with all my different types of tantrums and prepared for this new panicked, afraid, and erratic tantrum. I wanted to see Dean’s confident smile that mirrored Uncle John’s, Sammy’s toothless one, Aunt Mary’s wide smile. I wanted to see them all standing there as if nothing went wrong.

Mom placed me on the ground, and I orientated myself. I saw Dean a little bit away from the hospital truck, with a wailing bundle in his arms – Sammy. Uncle John and Aunt Mary weren’t anywhere around.

No, Uncle John was. I caught him in the corner of my eye. His broad shoulders were slumped as he looked at their burnt bones of their house. Aunt Mary wasn’t nearby.

“Hi, Dean. Are you okay? Is Sammy okay? Where’s Aunt Mary? I haven’t seen her.” I scratched my pants, wanting to keep my hands busy. Dean didn’t like people besides Aunt Mary touching him when he was sad. Aunt Mary should have been next to him. That was the saddest I had ever seen Dean.

My mother’s hand was on my shoulder. “Don’t ask so many questions, Castiel,” she said sharply.

“It’s okay.” Dean’s voice was small, nothing I had ever heard before. “My mommy was in the fire, Cas.” A shudder ran through his body. As if Sammy could understand before I could, his wailing got louder and more panicked. Dean looked at Sammy with empty eyes, tears running through the soot on his face. That’s when I understood: she was still in hellfire and she was not coming out.

Mom bent down in front of Dean and spoke with the unbelievable calm that mothers get at the perfect times, “Give me Sammy, Dean.” Dean looked at her cautiously, something he had never done before, but he was just four years old, and his protectiveness of his little brother had yet to sink, and would it sink in. When I saw Dean later, in a different town, no one would touch Sammy if they hadn’t come through Dean first. But, that night he handed Sammy over and wrapped his arms around himself.

“Charles! Come here!” Dad pushed his way through the crowd of people. He found us and put a hand on mom’s back. “I’m going to talk to the EMTs about Sammy, see how he’s doing. Please look after the boys.”

“Sure thing, honey,” Dad said.

Dean’s eyes followed my mom until she found an EMT, I assume. Then he looked at me. His lower lip started wobbling, and then he started hiccupping, and then a proper sob came out of his chest, worse than any sound I could have imagined. I looked up at my dad, lost, but he wasn’t looking at us. He was looking at Uncle John, still standing in front of their house, shaking his head with disappointment.

I had barely even thought about it before I had my hands wrapped around Dean. I felt his arms hesitantly wrap around me.

I hadn’t even realised I was also crying until my dad’s hand appeared of my back, rubbing in slow circles.

 

~

 

“What do you mean they’re not here?”

My mom and I were sitting in bed. I had been sleeping with my parents since the fire a week ago after I woke up screaming when they put me down once they had bathed me. The soot on Dean had rubbed off on me.

Her arm was curled around my thin shoulders.

“I mean, they moved somewhere else.”

“But, I didn’t say goodbye.”

“I know, Cassie.”

“But, how do they just go away, mommy? They live here.”

“Not anymore.”

“But-”

“Cassie.” I hated it when she used that voice, irritated and cutting, “they’re gone.”

I remember I didn’t talk to my mom for a whole week.

After a week, my dad shouted at me for not talking to my mom. I stopped talking to him too.

That was the first time Dean Winchester disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

_“When you least expect it, nature has cunning ways of finding our weakest spot.”_   
_André Aciman_

**[23 August 1976, Monday]**

I had gotten used to ignoring what I felt. I got used to pushing it all beneath the surface, daring the feelings to come to the light, where they could be examined. They cowered, weak.

These were my thoughts when I saw the new boy, _Dean_ , walk into my English class. I screamed at the emotions that started pushing through the fog that had blanketed my consciousness for the last year of high school to stay back.

Dean.

He had a swagger in his step, like he knew what the finish line looked like, so he took his time. His hair was kept short unlike most of the boys in the school.

He was also beautiful.

I could say that without the feelings breaching the surface. He was movie handsome. His skin was tanned, and I think I could see the barest hint of freckles. His eyes, green and gold, reminded me of a garden during sunset and an old carpet that’s now ash.

But, it was his smile. Something in that easy smile tugged at a memory I had long since buried. That easy smile, that when it was aimed at you, every faulty light inside you lit up if only it would mean he saw something bright and worth seeing.

“There’s an empty seat at the back of the class, next to Castiel Novak.” I search Dean’s face as Mr Breytenbach points towards me. His eyebrows perk up a little, but nothing more than that. I can’t tell if he’s pleased or disturbed that he has to sit next to me.

As he walked to my desk, I told myself the name _Dean_ was a coincidence. _My_ Dean was far, far, far away and had never sent as much as a postcard.

The Dean standing in my class winked at Amanda Heckerling. She rolled her eyes, but everyone in the room knew by lunch, she would be sitting with him and laughing at his jokes, and Dean smirked as if he knew it too.

“Castiel, huh? Don’t hear that name every day.”

_Really,_ I thought, _That’s the first thing he has to say to me?_ This is why it is clever to keep feelings like hope stamped down at the very bottom of my stomach so that I don’t get hurt. It makes everything so much more bearable.

“No, you don’t.”

Mr Breytenbach called for the class’ attention. I faced the front but Dean keeps talking to me softly anyway.

“What does it even mean?” He asked it like the question had been bothering him for years, but I glazed over his tone of voice.

“It means my parents wanted an Angel name that was Michael or Joshua.”

“So, does that make you the angel of oversized trench coats?” His eyes look down at the rest of my body, absorbing the way the tan trench coat pools around me.

My dad died last year. And this was his. You hardly saw him without it in the winter. When mom and I were taking care of his things, deciding where everything would go, she said I could have it. I started wearing it to school whenever there was the suggestion of wind that day. And when I woke up missing him.

“My mother says Castiel is the Angel of Solitude and Tears.” Dean blinked me. “And Thursday,” I add with a shrug.

“So, you’re limited to one day of miracles per week, and the rest of the week you mope?”

“Unfortunately, I’m quite low on miracles right now, so I mostly just mope.”

“I’m sure a pretty angel like you can make a plan.” Dean’s voice drops an octave, and he winked at me with a gleam in his eyes. The ash starts clearing in my stomach.

But, I retain full control of my faculties. _These feelings do not control me anymore._

“I only give those out to special people.”

“Good thing I’m one of a kind then.”

His brashness, rich voice, and secret smile leave me speechless, but I would be lying if I said it did not make him more of an enigma, one I wanted to examine closely and break apart and put back together piece by piece to find out what made it work.

“Dean and Castiel, come on!” Mr Breytenbach’s voice is reprimanding. “It’s the first lesson of the semester, have some respect for the rest of the class, and stop gossiping! You girls can do that over tea and biscuits later.” Breytenbach was an unnecessary hardass sometimes, but I didn’t like where Dean and I were going – you got in trouble for that in Indiana, that’s why I shoved them deep, deep down – so I focused on the projected presentation. I kept my head facing forward, no matter how hard Dean’s eyes bore into the side of my head.

He sighed and got bored eventually of trying to get my attention and taps the shoulder of the girl in front of him. She turns. Amanda Heckerling. Blonde and perfect, and annoyingly kind, who had never even given me a funny look.

I hated her so much when she turned to Dean, when she smiled at him, when he _winked_ at her, when she put a strand of blonde, long hair behind her ear with a giggle. I hated her so much and I couldn’t describe how badly I wanted her to face the front again and never see her smiling face.

Dean kept talking to her in between Breytenbach’s droning voice, saying charming things, shocking things that made Amanda shake her head fondly at him as if she’d known him forever, and this was just how Dean was.

Everything changed when she asked the question Castiel had been hesitant to ask, “So, what’s your surname, _Dean_? Which parts are you from?”

Before he answered he smile tightened at the edges as if he was fighting to keep it upright and solid. Amanda might have seen the tightness but she did not retract her question.

“Winchester. Dean Winchester. I’m from everywhere, but I guess I hail from Lawrence, Kansas.”

As Dean Winchester finished answering, the school bell rang and my heart dropped. Through my stomach. Through my legs. Through the floor. To the centre of the earth, where it could burn and burn.

This was _my_ Dean Winchester, and he hadn’t even recognised me.

That was the second time Dean Winchester came into my life.

 

~

 

**[24 August 1976, Tuesday]**

I didn’t know if I should bring it up. I mean, we were young enough that Dean probably doesn’t remember me well enough, but how many people has he met since named Castiel? Surely, my name has to be somewhere in there.

Those were my thoughts when I walked into English the following day. I was early for the class, not one to hang around after recess. I get out my books as I settled into my desk.

Just as I lifted my head when a giggle interrupted in the silence of the class. I see _them_ walk in, hand-in-hand. That was fast. Her hands look deathly pale intertwined to Dean’s tanned ones. She’s laughing at something he said while he smiles ahead, looking proud of himself. His green eyes skirt the classroom until they find mine, and that smile impossibly widens and becomes something else. Something _more_. While Amanda is giggling, her eyes traveled up his face, and I knew she saw that change too. I almost felt sorry for her. Her laugh faltered, and Dean didn’t even acknowledge the sound. His eyes were on me, and those gold-green eyes were lit with a familiarity that went beyond yesterday and then I knew.

My eyes widen imperceptibly – I hoped, _You remember_.

He lifted an eyebrow, _So which of us will be the one to say it out loud?_

 

~

 

**[27 August 1976, Friday]**

 

English was my last period. We were studying Macbeth, and I was enjoying it. I loved English, I loved the running on words, the soliloquies, the dramatics. All of it. And as much as Breytenbach was hard to get along with, the man knew his Shakespeare inside out.

He was talking about the guilt Lady Macbeth was experiencing, the blood that she imagined on her hands. How all her deceit and schemes were catching up with her. I could relate to Lady Macbeth. Everyday Dean and I didn’t speak, the tenser it became between us. I could taste it in the air when he walked into the classroom from Amanda’s jealousy and confusion, from Dean’s heated looks, from the way he licked his lips when he knew I was watching him. It was an intense game of Chicken.

Surprisingly, when the bell rings for the end of the day, Dean leans over to my table, “Can I come over to your house today?”

And I know. I should question it. Put up a fight. But I don’t have it in me to draw this out any longer.

“Sure. Come after 5.”

Dean’s smile is radiant, and my heart grew three sizes that day, “Great.”


	3. Chapter 3

_We are made_   
_of all those who_ _have built us._   
_\- Atticus_

 

**[27 August 1976, Friday]**

 

Dean’s eyes absorb every inch of our house. “Why did you guys move?”

Dean had handed a gun with a loaded question, I could answer honestly and entirely: We sold the house in Lawrence when Dad died; it had been too much for Mom and for me to walk into the living room and not find Dad reclining with a paperback, or over his typewriter in his den, or not hear his footsteps in the middle of the night when both of us couldn’t sleep. Every inch of that house screamed _Chuck-Amelia-and-Castiel Novak_. It didn’t make sense with just the two of them. Their new house had beige walls instead of blue, mom’s room had a new bed, I had fewer posters up, there was just one couch, and there were fewer photos. In the interest of being completely honest, Mom and I weren’t dealing well with Dad’s death, but we tried. She tried. But, I guess nothing prepares you for what she went through that year. 1974: pregnant with baby boy James, but she miscarried in the middle of her second Trimester, then Dad died on what should have been the birthdate. That would be enough to rattle anyone to the core and displace their life. I was just happy she got out of bed and took herself to work, and cooked food, and showed me how to do it as well, even if we didn’t talk much otherwise.

But, I’m not that brave.

“Dad passed away a couple of years ago, so we just need a change of scenery.”

Dean’s looked sharply to me and looked where my fingers were gripping the edges of the trench coat. Understanding dawned on his face.

He didn’t say _I’m sorry to hear_. Perhaps because he’s heard all that bullshit before, and knows it’s not what you need, or want.

Next thing I knew I’m enveloped in his arms, their pressure just right – hard enough to make the touch feel solid. My arms hang by my side before I remember to return the hug.

We stand in each other’s arms, for the first time in twelve years, for a few seconds until Dean finally speaks, “Apparently our brains are supposed to make memories fuzzy so that we don’t experience trauma all over again. But, I can’t forget that night.”

It’s not a sorry for leaving, sorry for not saying goodbye, or a sorry for not staying in touch. But the words he doesn’t say, I can feel them. In his arms, in his heart beating wildly against my chest, his breath against my shoulder.

_You were there for me. Let me be there for you. Even if it’s for the next few seconds._

I have no reply, so I just hug him tighter, and let out the breath I hadn’t realised I had been holding.

 

~

 

We are sitting in my room, I’m sitting against my headboard, hugging a pillow to keep my hands busy. Dean is talking about the places he’s been with Sam and his dad, him smoking with his head out the window.

“Let me tell you about Montana, that was fun, for a bit.” He takes a deep drag of the cigarette, the end of glowing red against the dusk light. I don’t usually find smoking attractive – it’s literally allowing a thing no bigger than a pen to steal your life away – but the way Dean did it made it different. It was just as reckless, but that didn’t feel like a bad thing. He had pulled one from the box stuffed in his jacket pocket and went to sit on my window sill, and when he breathed out the smoke, I wanted nothing more but to put my mouth over his and inhale it. That thought bulldozed into my mind like an unwanted guest and would not leave. I started getting hard thinking about it.

“Where’s your mom, Castiel?” It shouldn’t, but hearing my full name and not some succinct nickname, only encouraged my hard-on.

Confused, I said, “She likes to her friend’s place after work on a Friday. Jenny lost her husband a year ago, so the two of them meet up and probably get drunk. Mom normally finds her way home on Saturdays.”

“So, she won’t be home tonight?” The suggestion in the question makes this damn hard on impossible to ignore under this pillow. I need to get to a bathroom. Now.

“No, she won’t.”

Dean just nods slowly and turns back to his cigarette without another word to me. My heart tilts a little, but I guess it wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway.

“Do you want one?” I look up from the pillow to find Dean holding out a cigarette to me. His arm reaching towards me reminds me of _The Creation of Adam_ : The cigarette being God’s finger, ready to spark the life into the reclined Adam, but unlike Adam, I refuse not to be set alight from the hand that brings life. I grab the cigarette. And by the time I have it in my hand, I realise I forgot about my hard-on.

Dean’s eyes rake down my body, like he can see underneath all my layers, like he can see my dick. He smiles but says nothing. His silence, his smile, his knowing eyes scream at me not to retreat, and for once I don’t. I sit next to him on the window seat, our knees touch.

“I haven’t done this before,” I say, waving the cigarette belatedly. My cheeks heat up, but Dean’s laughter isn’t mean.

“I figured. Don’t worry, I’ll show ya how it all works.” Dean drags the L’s in ‘all’ and winks.

“Say aaaaa,” he holds the cigarette like a tongue depressor. He keeps his eyes trained on me the whole time. I open my mouth, and he places the cigarette barely just in front of my teeth. I get impossibly harder when the cigarette touches my lip.

“I’m going to light it for you. When I light it, you breathe in, and breath out when I tell you, good?”

I nod. Anything would be good right now. The world could end and it would be good if the apocalypse could leave this room unscathed.

The flame is reflected in his eyes, and I nearly forget to breathe in when he lights the cigarette. Except, the moment right after her lights the cigarette, his hand is on my thigh, his fingers, kneading the muscle there. I take short gasp and choked on the smoke. It tastes disgusting. Dean watches with a little sympathy, a little humour, and hand still on my thigh until I stop cough.

“You’ve got muscle, Novak.” Dean’s hands rub up and down my thigh, letting his fingers pressing into my inner thigh muscle, and I am on _fire_.

“I jog.” I don’t believe I am capable of more than those two syllables.

“Try again.” At the risk of seeming too eager he adds, “If you want.”

My lips are dry. Dean’s eyes follow my tongue as I lick them. “I’m good. No more.”

“Fair enough.”

Dean puts down the lighter. Takes the cigarette from my mouth and douses it. But he doesn’t move his hand, and he doesn’t look away.

His hand starts moving up.

Another game of chicken. _Who is going to acknowledge his curious hand first?_

The question answers itself moments later.

It all happens in a single moment.

Dean’s thumb slide’s against my denim cover dick. My hips react without intention and chase his hand. Dean looks down, bottom lip between his teeth and slides the rest of his hand over my dick. Then looks up, and without a second’s hesitation, his lips crash into mine. My hands thread themselves in his beautiful blonde-brown hair. They grip his hair, pulling him closer, holding more of him against me. He moans against my lips, a broken sound. _His_ hands are trying to open my belt, but they are not going fast enough. As much as I don’t want to, I break contact with his lips, to unbutton my pants, and stand up to pull them completely off.

“Ever gotten a blowjob from a boy?” A numb shake of my head.

“Ever gotten a blowjob?” A shy shake of my head.

“Then buckle up.”

When Dean Winchester’s lip brushed against the head of my hard dick, the world went white behind my eyes.

 

~

 

Dean Winchester was always coming into my life and leaving it soon thereafter. You would think I would have gotten used to it by now. But, when Dean Winchester storms into my life, with his loud car, his charm-your-pants-off smile, his eyes that reminded me of a long gone carpet, I forgot how much it hurt finding out the next Monday that he wasn’t there anymore, because seeing him in front of me, with a cigarette hanging from his lips, my whole body feels like it’s finally alive.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a set up for a larger story, WHICH IS STRUGGLING TO GET WRITTEN lmao. But hopefully, you enjoyed this first taste.


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